


The scent of Paint

by QueerCannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, FTM, FTM Original Character, FTM Trans OC, FTM Trans Original Character, M/M, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22411960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCannibal/pseuds/QueerCannibal
Summary: The heads of the Verger estate are always immortalized by having a portrait done to forever hang within the halls of the Verger manor. Mason Verger is no exception.Of course, Mason didn't expect to model for his own portrait. Nor did he expect the hired artist to be so... enticing.
Relationships: Mason Verger/Original Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. The Painting

Chapter One - _The Painting_

Commissioning an oil painter to paint a detailed portrait of the head’s of the Verger family was a tradition that went back several generations; there were a small handful of large elaborate and horribly dull oil paintings hanging in the Verger estate. They’d been moved and rearranged several times during remodeling, but despite despising them, Mason couldn’t bring himself to throw them out, burn them, or even chuck them up in the attic with the other junk he had moved after his father’s _untimely_ death. 

Mason Verger was not anti-change—at least in his own personal life, change was never good for business—but there were limits that he could take immediately after a supposed tragedy. He knew everyone was upset and agog at his renovations on the manor, but he didn’t care. At least he hadn’t changed the face of the manor, they should be thankful for that. Because _he_ hated it. He thought the whole thing was a horrible eyesore.

“What do you think of this?” He asked, adjusting his tie in the mirror, and glancing back towards the doorway where Margot was leaning, arms crossed, hair pulled back; she was dressed to go riding. Again. She’d taken to riding quite often, and Mason was beginning to wonder if perhaps his dear beloved twin sister was avoiding him.

Margot eyed him, examining the outfit on a whole. She tilted her head, a few stray strands of hair falling across his face. She brushed them back behind her ear.

“I think it is appropriate pretentious, while still having your own flair to it.”

“You don’t think that I’ll stick out among those old fat foggy’s?”

“Mason, you always stick out. No matter how you dress, you’ll still stick out. But isn’t that the point?”

He grinned and chuckled, clapping his hands together before turning on his heel and crossing the room to her. He bopped her nose with his fingertip.

“You’re right. Sometimes you can be so smart Margot.” Of course sometimes she was also a liar; often times she was a liar. But he was in a good mood, he’d let this one go. He stepped past her out of the room. “So, you going riding again?” He asked, knowing that she was following behind him.

“We all mourn differently.”

“Ha! Don’t tell me you’re mourning for Father? You hated father.” He paused and turned around, walking backwards a few paces as he studied her. “Ever since he discovered you were a carpet muncher that is.”

Margot rolled her eyes.

“Regardless of my personal feelings, he was our father nonetheless, and we take the absence of his presents and do what we can with it. For you, it’s interior decorating, for me, its riding.” She looked him over again before nodding. “It’s a good outfit for the painter.” She then moved off down the hall, her heeled boots tapping on the marble as she went. Mason watched her leave, unsure if she was mocking him or not.

“Hmn.” He snorted a little and straightened his vest before going off to see how preparations had gone over the morning.

×∞×

Oskar James was an artist and a rather good artist as well; when he was commissioned to do a portrait for the head of the Verger estate it wasn’t entirely out of his ballpark; he’d done commission portraits before. He’d done it all. Nothing would surprise him. Or so he thought, until he was informed twenty-four-hours before he was due to start his commission, that it would be in house, with a life model, and not a series of photographs. That was new.

Oskar hadn’t used a live model since art classes. Live models were annoying. They twitched and moved, and breathed too much, and got itches they just _had_ to scratch. And none of them really seemed to understand the fact that painting takes time! This wasn’t magic what he did, it was hard work. Time consuming work. Hand cramping, eye irritating work. But of course he didn’t say any of that. He’d agreed to do the in home work, asked for directions, and had gotten up bright and early to go set up his studio in the manor.

Only once he’d gotten all of the details of the commission piece did Oskar realize that using a life model would in fact be much easier. The piece was huge! The canvas was taller than he was, and at least twice as wide. Yes, photographs wouldn’t have done this piece justice at all.

While Oskar set up his paints, and brushes, the door to the room opened and he glanced up, first catching a climbs of messy sandy blonde hair, and glasses. He set the paints aside and rounded the canvas; rubbing his hands on his shirt to be sure they were clean before approaching the man. He was a little taller than Oskar, and Oskar’s first thought was that he looked like such a peacock.

“You must be my subject, Mr. Verger?” Oskar offered his hand; Mason looked him up and down briefly.

“Your subject, that sounds like I’m a science experience.”

“Well then, how about muse?”

“That’s more befitting an artist.” Mason took the man’s hand and shook his hand. “And I’ve seen some of your work; do you think this will all work for you?”

“Yes, most definitely.”

“Did you bring a camera?”

“I did, yes, but, I’m not going to use it.”

Mason tilted his head slightly. Wait. He smiled, but his brow furrowed slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t entirely aware at the scope of his project, it’s, it’s quite grand.” Oskar gestured to the canvas. “I normally do use photos, and can, but, for this, I think I’ll lose something if I use photographs.”

“I,” Mason glanced over at the set up and then back to Oskar, “I don’t understand.”

“I’m going to have you model for me Mr. Verger. So I can capture your… spark, your essence, whatever you want to call it, on the canvas.” Oskar didn’t know if the man was into art or not, or had any preconceptions, or opinions at all on the subject. He just knew that a lot of people who didn’t _get_ art definitely didn’t get artists. But of course Oskar couldn’t just say it wasn’t _t h a t_ deep.

“How, how, oh.” Mason walked over to the canvas and looked it up and down before stepping around it. “I suppose that’s doable.” He’d never modeled a day in his life. He had never been very good at keeping still. He was always going, from morning to night. Always doing something had to keep busy. “How long do you think that something like this will take?” Mason inquired as he stepped up to where the backdrop was.

“I won’t lie to you Mason, it will take awhile.” He followed after the man. “But we will of course take breaks, it won’t happen in one sitting. I wouldn’t do that to you.” Oskar said with a smile.

“I uh,” Mason ran his tongue over his teeth and looked at the staged area and then sucked on his teeth before snapping a finger, “chair.”

“Excellent idea.” Oskar nodded. “That will help the process considerably.”

The following hour was spent getting Mason set up in his chair, in a dignified but comfortable position, mixing paint, and getting himself set up before the canvas. Oskar had a stool, but more often than not he spent his time painting on his feet.

He swayed before the canvas, setting paint down in thick swaths, and swaying to the side to look past the white expanse to where his subject sat—correction, his muse.

While the man worked, Mason tried his best not to fidget. It was much harder to stay still when he knew that he had to. He’d never been good at that. He’d hated school, bored out of his mind—he’d spent more time being pulled out of school than learning anyway.

Bouncing his leg, Mason tried to keep from changing position. He’d startle a little whenever the other man gave him a direction— _chin up, turn slightly to your right, widen your legs—_ it made him oddly uncomfortable. He had intended to pose for only a short time—maybe an hour—for photographs, not the full painting. Perhaps the staff hadn’t been… properly explanatory when hiring this painter. He should have known the scope of the work, and Mason should have definitely been PREPPED for modeling. He didn’t appreciate this surprise. Sure it might have seemed like nothing to the painter—Oskar or whoever—but it cut into Mason’s day. He had a life! He had business to take care of. He had plans! Okay, well, he didn’t really, but Mason liked having the freedom to do what he liked when he liked it. He didn’t like being pinned down. He’d never liked being pinned down.

“Would you like to take a break Mr. Verger?”

Mason blinked, and glanced towards the canvas; Oskar was peeking out at him, brush and pallet in hand, pain on his fingers and on his chin. Mason frowned.

“Already?” He was a little surprised.

“It’s already been an hour and a half. You should probably stretch your legs. Sitting isn’t good for you, you know.” Oskar said with a shrug, setting his pallet and brush aside, wiping his hands on a rag as he stepped out from behind the canvas. “Besides, I for one could use a bathroom break.”

An hour and a half? Already? Really? Mason could hardly believe it. When he stood however his hips and knees were proof enough. He let out a surprised groan as he worked through his stiffness.

“Oh, yes. That’s…that’s a good idea.” Mason could definitely use a stretch. Water wouldn’t go amiss either. “Here,” he lead the man out of the room and into the hallway, “the bathroom is down that way, third… no… fourth door on the left.”

“Thank you.” Oskar nodded and headed off down the hallway. Mason watched him go, tilting his head slightly.

“Huh.” He turned and headed for the kitchen, sticking his hands into his pockets. That Oskar was an interesting man. Small figured, lean. Shorter than Mason—something that he liked considerably; Mason didn’t like tall men—sure they were nice to look at, but if Mason couldn’t over power them what was the point?

Oskar was a pretty figure. Soft, regardless of the tattoos; mop of curly coppery red hair, brown eyes. Mason wondered if he was into men. Not that it mattered. With the sort of money he had Mason could like whoever he wanted and get away with it—not that he didn’t have his limits. Sort of.

The following weeks followed much the same. Oskar would come every other day, Mason would don his “portrait outfit” and he would sit in his chair while the other man stood behind the canvas and began painting again. Mason had assumed it would have gotten easier, but it really hadn’t. Every time was just like the last; he would feel twitchy and irritated and uncomfortable. He tried to reason why. Perhaps it was the chair, or his clothes; but realistically he just didn’t like sitting still and being quiet. He liked having fun, getting into trouble, messing with his sister. The servants. Visitors.

Oskar enjoyed his time in the manor, painting Mr. Verger. The man was nice to look at, and painting the portrait in person meant he got to look at the man a lot; he also saw a lot. He saw how the man fidgeted, squirmed, and bounced his leg. He could tell that the man wasn’t accustom to sitting still and quiet. It was kind of endearing. He wondered what the man got up to regularly. There was probably plenty of boring things that occupied his time, like work, and business and whatever else was involved with running a worldwide famous slaughter business.

×∞×

It was the late evening, and they were due for their last stretch before Mason was due to be let go while Oskar did some minor touch ups before he left himself. He walked around the canvas and smiled at the man.

“Alright, you can go. I’m all done with you for the evening.”

Mason groaned and stood, stretching his shoulders and rolling his ankles slightly as he moved away from the set, meeting the man.

“Good, I’m tired of sitting.” He sighed, wrinkling his nose a little and ruffling his hair. He was stiff and unhappy, and felt like he’d wasted his entire day. He’d been feeling uncomfortable and more and more jittery with each passing session.

Oskar didn’t know what possessed him, but pallet still in hand, paint smeared across one cheek, he lifted up on his toes a little and pressed his lips against the other man’s. There was a brief hesitation, a pause where all of the air seemed to leave the room. Oskar’s heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest. What did he do!?

This was a job! This was his employer! He shouldn’t have kissed him. What should he do? He should pull away, no, that might be rude, no…

Mason was surprised. He’d felt that there was something growing between them—tension or something over the last few days—but even so this kiss surprised him. The other man’s lips were soft, he smelled of shampoo and paint, an interesting combination of scents. Mason kind of liked it actually. He was growing oddly fond of the smell of paint over the last few weeks. Was he getting pavloved by this twink?

The thought alone was enough to make him see red. This was this _wasn’t_ the way that things were supposed to go! He was the one who was supposed to be in charge! He was the one who was supposed to… seduce, pursue, and conquer or whatever! It was his choice! His job! He didn’t appreciate—no—he didn’t _accept_ that this was happening this way. He didn’t accept the vulnerable feelings that had been steadily creeping up on him over the last few weeks or the cold feeling that had settled in his stomach.

When the kiss broke both men looked dazed and a little shocked and confused. Oskar’s lips parted, something forming behind his tongue, perhaps an explanation, an apology, or some confused walrus like sound—neither of them really knew—but Mason didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t, he couldn’t stomach any more of it. So instead of letting it form, Mason gripped the man’s arms and yanked him closer crushing their lips together again, claiming those soft pink lips, this time on his own terms.

Oskar gasped and winced at the grip, but the kiss cut off any apology he’d intended to make. Mason’s grip was iron tight—surprisingly tight, almost bruisingly so—and his kiss was anything but tender. It was all consuming, demanding, with no room for argument, just surrender. But that was okay. Oskar didn’t entirely mind it rough—though he usually liked to be prepared for it. He also usually liked to be prepared for—more than a kiss…

Oskar made a small noise against the other man’s mouth as those strong hands began to drift. One down to his wrist—the force now crushing—and the other to his hip, then lower.

“M-Mason—wait—”

The complaint—or whatever it was—barely escaped between them before Mason drew back and hit him; most of the times whenever Mason hit anyone it was precise and intentional, this felt manic. Mason felt manic. The other gasped and stumbled a little, and Mason—despite feeling out of his element—pushed him down onto the sofa, grabbing his wrist and jerking his arm back behind his back.

He didn’t understand. Even with the man’s weight over him, he wasn’t panicking—at least not about the man over him, pinning him down—but rather over the fact he wasn’t panicking. He was panicking about not panicking. He struggled a little, wincing when Mason jerked his arm further up his back, making him choke on a hiss.

“Stop—“

“Then stop being difficult.”

“I’m not—I’m, I’m sorry—“ Oskar forced himself to relax. This wasn’t how he imagined this going. The last few days, he’d, he’d thought about this. About the man he’d been looking at for weeks, hours upon hours at a time. But this wasn’t what he’d imagined. He hadn’t even imagined this sort of strength from the man; Mason was a rather small man, but he knew how to hit, and pin, and bend someone however he wanted them. He knew how to use his weight to his advantage.

Oskar wasn’t a large man either, and his surprise had likely been his downfall. He hadn’t had time to even properly register what was happening until He’d been pinned down against the sofa, face pressed into the not-so-soft embroidered fabric.

“I, I just want to keep my shirt on, okay? I won’t struggle, you can fuck me,” he winced when Mason’s hand tightened in his hair, pushing his face into the cushion a little harder.

Mason was shaking; the man liked to think it was from arousal, but really it was just an overload of adrenaline and fried nerves. Mason wasn’t entirely accustom to his partners from being, willing; even this level of cooperation was surprising. He didn’t quite know what to do. He wasn’t accustom to… rewarding his partners. He nodded, then remembered that the man’s face was pressed into the sofa cushion and thus he wouldn’t be able to see him.

“Yeah, yeah that’s fine. Whatever. I don’t care.” He hooked his hand into the back of the man’s jeans and pulled; God bless jeans. Regardless of how tight they were, if one wasn’t wearing a belt they could be yanked off. It took a little work, Oskar’s hips didn’t seem to want to give them up, but Mason managed to yank them down, exposing the other’s boxer-briefs—yellow. For some reason the color choice made Mason smile. It might have been endearing if he had the capacity to even really think about what they were doing.

He loosened his grip in the man’s curly ginger hair, and gave him a bit of a pet; ruffling his hair a little before he dragged his other hand down over the other’s ass. Lord he had a nice ass. Round and perky and soft. His cock gave a heavy twitch in his pants. It had been ages since he’d had someone. Probably what lead to this. A kiss had… spiraled massively out of control.

Oskar bit his lip, arm having gone numb, fingers twitching though he couldn’t feel them. It had been…a while for him. His last fling hadn’t been entirely enjoyable, and he wasn’t sure how he was feeling about this one yet either. He should be more upset shouldn’t he? That, that this man—who he, objectively, hardly knew—was hurting him, forcing himself on him. Was… was this rape? No. He wasn’t saying no. He didn’t entirely want to. He _w a s_ attracted to the man… he had been the one to initiate the kiss.

“I won’t struggle…” He said, voice a little muffled against the sofa cushion. “You can use both hands.” He suggested, hoping that the man would release his arm before he broke it; Oskar wasn’t interested in going to the hospital today.

“You better not.” Mason hissed leaning down. “Or I’ll hit you.” It was no idle threat, he’d already hit the man across the face.

Oskar nodded. His cheek smarted a bit, but he could take a hit. Though he’d rather not take another one. Another hit and he might snap out of whatever daze he was in, whatever frame of mind made this okay; that scared him a little. He didn’t want to panic, because then it would ruin this. If he panicked maybe Mason would stop. Once Mason released his arm, Oskar pulled his arm underneath himself, the ache spreading like a burn across his shoulder. He let out a shaky breath as the other’s hands pulled and pushed at his clothes, shoving his shirt up just a little, and yanking his underwear down.

Mason shoved underwear and jeans a bit further down, surprised to reveal ink. Oh! The further he shoved the material down the more ink he revealed.

“Oh, oh, oh, look at this—my—so you’re a bit of a walking canvas aren’t you.” He chuckled and ran a finger up along the inside of the man’s thigh, enjoying the subtle texture of the ink. The man shuddered a little beneath him, thigh muscles quivering slightly.

“Tattoos are fun. Have any?” Oskar choked out.

“No, no, I, enjoy other taboo pleasures.” Mason chuckled and slid his hand over the other’s ass. The skin was smooth and firm, but with just enjoy jiggle to be fun. Mason gave him a sharp slap, forcing a gasp from the other man. “What do you like most about tattoos hmn?”

Oskar shifted a little, just enough to breathe better and maybe get out a clear word or two. He shuddered as the man’s hands kneaded and rubbed at his ass. It had been awhile, far too long; he was embarrassed at how sensitive he was. How often he flinched. How his muscles clenched. The fact that he could already feel arousal growing warm in the pit of his stomach.

“It’s… I like that getting tattoos it’s like meditation. It hurts… but, the buzz of the tattoo gun, the subtle burn across skin… the euphoria of seeing the ink bleed into my skin, the aftercare that reminds me to take care of myself…”

“Ooh, you like the pain huh?”

“A little… not all the time. But…enough to have gone back more than once.” He let out a soft wine as Mason’s fingers dug into the cleft of one cheek, kneading the flesh like dough. “Spent, ah, spent countless hours sitting in the chair, letting them go over my skin with needles.”

“Kinky.” Mason leaned over the man again and with his foot shoved the other’s pants and underwear down to his ankles. He growled and with more work than he wanted to deal with got the pants and shoes off, stripping the man bare from the bellybutton down. “Who’d have thought the quiet soft little painter had a kinky side.” Okay maybe he was projecting. He was definitely projecting—but God he didn’t know what was happening. Normally he felt control like this, but he still didn’t feel it. He still felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. He didn’t understand it. This should have felt good! This should have felt powerful!

Repositioning himself, Mason slid his hand between the other’s thighs, following the warmth to the other’s center, making a surprised noise as his fingers found soft folds and not the warm swell of testicles. Several things clicked into place at once in Mason’s brain, and he glanced around as his fingers slipped further between those thighs, brushing upwards against that heated mound. Okay. This was new. Mason could work with this though. It didn’t change the fact that he found the man attractive. It just… added some options.

“Hmn…self made man huh?” He pressed his weight against the other as his fingers explored and gently brushed over course curls and soft folds, fingers coming away a little damp. “I can respect that.” Not that he’d ever let anyone outside this room know that.

Mason was, gay. His sister was a lesbian. Neither of which was acceptable among the Verger family. The Verger’s were “good Christian” people, and gays and the like were bad. Mason had only gotten away with what he had gotten away with because he was his father’s only son. And Mason had thrown Margot under the bus.

“It’s not a problem for me.” It wasn’t, apparently, since his cock hadn’t flagged in the slightest. In fact he’d only grown harder as he dragged his fingers against the warm heat.

The heat of Mason behind him, those fingers burying deep inside of him, it was heady and erotic, and Oskar felt his pulse quicken, heat spreading from his collarbone up to his ears. When those fingers lightly brushed against his g-spot—just the gentlest, likely accidental, glide—he couldn’t help but gasp, hips twitching slightly as more moisture began to gather between warm folds.

Mason watched the back of the man’s head, eyes heavily lidded as he fucked into him with first one, then two fingers; he dragged his tongue across his teeth then his bottom lip, dragging his lip between his teeth, worrying the flesh gently. While this was a little new to him, there was also a familiarity to the movements in this, even if the act itself was so different from what he was used to; the glide of his fingers into the other’s hot, snug hole, fingering him open, really wasn’t that much different from foreplay with a man—a, biological man? He didn’t really know enough to understand the situation entirely. The way the smaller man’s body gripped at his fingers, in particular were similar. It brought back an assortment of mental images of other holes clenching around his cock, which made him ache. He wanted to sink inside of him so badly that he could barely think—could hardly believe he was taking this sort of time to get him to open up a little.

“Fuck it—” Mason added a third finger, and thrust in till he couldn’t thrust any deeper, all the way to his third knuckle before withdrawing his fingers, wiping his fingers off on the other’s tattooed thigh. His heart was pounding in his throat, his fingers and toes felt cold and numb.

Mason gripped the base of his cock, shifting forward, opening Oskar’s thighs further with his own before pressing a hand against the other’s ass to push him in a better position as he pressed the corona of his weeping sex to the cleft of Oaskar’s cunt, stroking it through the slick mess between light pink-purple folds to smear against his ruddy flesh. He watched through a heavy gaze and he slowly pushed forward, guiding himself into the other’s opening with only a little hesitation. Releasing his own cock, he reached up to tangle his fingers in the other’s hair again, pushing the other’s face into the sofa, using the other’s hair to anchor himself and press in deeper, spreading him around the fat ridge of his cockhead, until the flared edge was swallowed up entirely but the other’s wet cunt with a slow gulp. He hissed softly at the sensation of that sensitive flesh being devoured so intimately, steadying himself as he eased his hips forward; sinking into him at last.

Oskar’s own heart was lodged in his throat, blood rushing in his ears. He felt overheated, smothered under the other man’s weight. He spread his thighs a little as he heard the hiss of the man’s fly, and the rustle of material. This was insane! He couldn’t hardly believe this was happening. He had imagined being with the other man, though not like this. This hadn’t been anywhere near how he fantasized about this happening. Well… the sofa was at least the same.

“Oh God,” he whispered, eyes widening as he felt the other position behind him, the heated corona of the other’s cock pressing against his cunt hot and insistently, “oh fu--!” He bit back a pained groan, brows furrowing as the other entered him; he wasn’t nearly wet enough and the intrusion burned. Now, Oskar typically was okay with a little burn, but usually only with anal sex. This was sharper, harder to ignore, harder to brace through. But not unbearable.

“Easy, easy—” Mason held Oskar’s head down, using his weight to keep him in place, “just let me—” He let out a soft sigh as he was fully sheathed inside that tight warm heat; it was, different, but not bad. His cock wasn’t going to complain at warm, and wet. “God you’re tight—” 

“Haven’t…ah, had the occasion for awhile—” Oskar wheezed.

“Poor baby, no one wanna fuck someone as cute as you? That’s a shame.” Mason teased, holding the man’s head down by the hair and pulling out a bit before rolling his hips to press back into the other’s tight heat. He gave the man three semi-thoughtful slow thrusts before he began fucking at his leisure. He pressed his weight into the other and sighed, eyes closing as he just embraced the sensation of tight friction; it was a little rough, but he had been craving this, at least part of this. The friction of it all.

While Mason rocked his hips, firm and fast, chasing the relief that the friction would bring, he growled at the man’s shirt. It was annoying, in the way, there wasn’t nearly enough skin to be explored and marked. He yanked the back of the other’s shirt down a bit, making him gasp as the collar pressed against his throat.

Mason kissed the back of the man’s neck, and what he could of the top of his spine; his skin was so smooth and soft, and he just wanted to mark him up. He dragged his teeth against the other’s skin, fingers tightening in those red curls; he could feel several strands pull free between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ahH ah HEY!” Oskar yelped when Mason bit him. The drag of teeth hadn’t been alarming, but the bite, fuck, his entire body tensed up; he squirmed a little, trying to get away from the bite that sent not entirely pleasant tingles through his nerves, and that earned him a sharp jerk to his hair followed by punch.

It wasn’t a hard punch but it made his head ring a little and he groaned against the embroidered sofa.

“Hey! What did I say?” Mason snapped. “Be a good boy, and I may even let you get off.” He doubted this alone would do it. Wasn’t that some stereotype, or something? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. But if Oskar behaved he’d make sure he got off to. Normally Mason wouldn’t have cared about the person he was fucking but… Oskar, the man was annoyingly endearing. With his stupid mop of curly copper hair, and his bright eyes, paint smeared skin.

Oskar remained quiet beneath the other man, pressing his knuckles against his mouth to keep from gasping or groaning too loudly. His brow wrinkled. He wasn’t sure he’d get off. He didn’t know if he could. His arousal had ebbed a little, and he didn’t think cumming would feel so great after such a rough fucking. Especially because he was almost sure he was bleeding. He felt to warm and wet between his thighs, he had to be bleeding.

How had this happened? He’d kissed him. But, how had this happened? How had this all spun so out of control? Whatever calm Oskar had felt up until this point was beginning to evaporate, and he just wanted it to be over so he could leave. He had to leave.

He closed his eyes when the thrusting got faster and harder, the other’s breath warm against his neck—which he was pretty sure might also be bleeding—and had to restrain a groan when the other gasped above him, tensing and thrusting erratically, hot seed spilling into him.

The fingers in his hair loosened, and then stroked across his scalp.

“Good boy.” He didn’t feel good. “You did so good being quiet. Most people don’t get the message as quick as you.” Most people? Had Mason done this to others? He wasn’t sure if he found that disgusting or disturbing; perhaps a mixture of both. He gasped when the other pulled out, cold air making him shiver as his abused cunt was exposed to it. He grabbed the arm of the sofa and dragged himself upright before the other man could touch him again.

“I’m leaving.” His voice sounded surprisingly calm, didn’t even tremble, despite the fact that he could feel how shaken he was. He pulled up his underwear and grabbed his pants and shoes, dressing rapidly, not caring how disheveled he looked.

“Oh don’t look like that, listen I was only teasing, I’ll get you off, it’s not a big deal that you were a little difficult.”

“No, thank you, but I’m leaving.” He grabbed his wallet and left his art supplies, trotting shakily out of the room. He marched his way through the dimly lit halls and outside to his car.

“Did you take the chocolate?”

Oskar startled a little and almost tripped down the steps as he tried to turn towards the voice. A slight framed woman with brown hair and a similar face to Mason stood there, smoking, leaned against the windowpane. She looked at him with strong but tired eyes. “Hmn.” She nodded, and Oskar scurried off to his car, climbing in and driving off without giving the woman a second thought.


	2. Retrospection

Chapter Two

_Retrospection_

Oskar’s hand trembled as he fumbled with his keys, struggling to get the key into the ignition; he grit his teeth and tilting his head, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he tried to get the key in. He let out an annoyed puff, tensions tingling across his skin. He reached up and turned on the inside light, finding the hole and slipping the key in, turning it and starting the ignition. The engine rolled over and he quickly turned off the light, pulling on his seatbelt and pulling out of the driveway.

Usually quick departures were expected, appreciated even, but the man exiting the room rapidly left Mason feeling a bit whiplashed; what just happened? He blinked, feeling as if his brain was processing everything in slow motion. He straightened himself out, smoothing out wrinkles in his clothes and looking up towards the window. Crossing towards it, Mason felt as if he were moving through a bog; when he came to the window he could feel the cold wafting through the glass and chilling his heated skin. He watched as the man crossed to his car, climbed in, and pulled out of the driveway rapidly. He felt numb. The usual euphoria that buzzed underneath his skin after such a release was missing—that was new. He didn’t like it.

As those red taillights faded far too rapidly down the long driveway Mason chewed his cheek trying to figure out what had just happened. He turned numbly away from the window and walked back around to the canvas. He stared at the smears of paint on stretched canvas not really seeing the image, just the reflection of light on not quite dried oil paints; reds, whites, blacks, coppers, yellows, golds—just blobs of ink on canvas.

“Is it safe to assume that our friend won’t be, uh, coming back?”

Mason felt his hackles rise slightly at the mocking tone, and drew blood—teeth digging into his cheek—he rolled his shoulders and schooled his expression. He turned on his heel and held his head high, jaw tight.

Margot had entered the room, smelling of outside, and straw, and smoke. She eyed him, tilting her head slightly, cocking a brow. Mason wanted to hit her—but despite his fingers curling, he couldn’t quite bring himself to.

“Nonsense.” He paused and looked at her without really perceiving here. “The job isn’t done.” He said simply, marching past her, knocking his shoulder into hers sharply as he passed; she barely flinched.

“Uh-huh.” Margot glanced over her shoulder as he left the room before looking back at the canvas. She crossed to it and examined it. “Kid’s got talent, I’ll give him that.” She mused aloud to herself.

×∞×

The drive from the Verger Estate to Oskar’s apartment was a long silent forty-five minutes; the longest, most dauntingly silent forty-five minutes of his life. He couldn’t even bring himself to switch on the radio, despite glancing at the subtle blue glowing panel every few seconds. Any sound would have been better than nothing, but he just couldn’t bring himself to reach for the dial.

When he did get home, and pull into his designated parking spot, Oskar sat in his car, engine running for fifteen minutes, staring straight ahead—he’d probably alarmed his neighbor walking her dog, but he didn’t even care. He felt like doing anything was an almost insurmountable task; even just shutting off his engine and undoing his seatbelt felt like it supped all of his energy. But, after fifteen minutes he managed to make himself do it, dragging himself out of the car. Getting to his door was actually the easy part—fishing his keys out of his pants pocket was a whole other challenge, especially since his keys were in his hand and not in his pocket.

Oskar’s apartment was nothing special, but it was an extension of himself, and a perfect expression of his artistic life and hobbies. It was home. Or well, he had always thought that it was home. But stepping to stand in his small entryway, door closed behind him, he didn’t feel at home. He felt how empty the space was. Just wood, brick, and plaster. Smatterings of paint. Several layers as he had discovered when he banged into a wall and dented the wall.

He didn’t even turn on the light or think to lock his door as he moved through the apartment—dropping his bag and his keys and not even caring. He went straight down the hall towards the bathroom and did finally turn on a light. He closed and locked the bathroom door.

Shedding clothes like the empty husk left behind by some molting cicada, Oskar climbed into the shower and spun the dials—having to work at the left side one since it always stuck—and getting immediately splashed with ice cold water. A startled yelp escaped him, and it jolted his hazy brain into action slightly. He spun the other dial rapidly, getting the shower temperature to something a little more reasonable. He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned, brushing his hair back before turning to get them properly soaked. He felt grimy. Why did he feel grimy? Didn’t… victims feel grimy? Didn’t guilty consciousness feel grimy?

He tried to clean up, but he couldn’t even get himself to go through the motions. Instead he ended up leaning against the wall of the shower arms crossed, water beating down against his back, hair falling into his face, droplets dripping off his eyelashes and the end of his nose.

Part of him thought he should cry. Be angry. Something like that. But, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to do it. He couldn’t cry. His eyes were dry. Dryer than they’d ever been in his life. And he wasn’t angry. He was numb.

It wasn’t until there was a light scratching at his bathroom door and a tiny meow that Oskar’s emotions seemed to catch up to him. A soft choked hiccup forced its way up his throat and then the tears came. He couldn’t stop them. They seemed to flow from deep down and made his bones ache. He curled up, holding himself tighter, slowly sliding down to sit under the spray of the water. Upset. Upset at himself for being upset. Upset at himself for the… stereotypical response to the situation. But mostly upset that he couldn’t bring himself to climb out of his shower and go and cuddle his cat. He needed a friendly warm body to cuddle next to and who better than his cat?

×∞×

Mason laid in bed, the blankets draped unceremoniously across his midriff, one arm bent behind his head, cradling his skull in the crook of his elbow, the other holding a smoldering cigarette; the man didn’t often smoke—that was more his sisters thing than his own—but whenever he was stressed he tended to smoke one or two. Or, rather he’d take one or two puffs, forget about the burning cigarette entirely and merely hold it while it burned down. He didn’t like cigarettes. They tasted awful, and they smelt worse. But something about the motions helped; at least helped enough to quiet his thoughts down enough for him to get some peace, even if only for a little while. Tonight Mason found no peace in the cigarette.

He tried to think over the evening, trying to map out what had happened—what had gone wrong—because while he might have gotten off, none of it felt quite right; the whole situation felt different to him. He was used to overpowering his sexual partners—partners? Conquests? Interests. It was just how it went. Always had, ever since he was young. But, this had felt so out of his control! He was never out of control! He was always in control!

Something that many people might have not known about Mason was that he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t have a ton of school smarts, but he was smart. He had read so many books, and dealt with so many kinds of people. And he knew how to play people. Knew how to manipulate them and turn situations on their heads—and when he could outsmart, he had lawyers who could, and plenty of money. He knew how to pressure people. Knew how to get what he wanted, when he wanted.

He had thought that he wanted Oskar, but… none of this had felt right. He was attracted to the man. Even now. Nothing had changed. But—even having had access to his body—he felt unsatisfied. He wanted… more.

He groaned frustrated and put out the cigarette, perhaps a little more aggressively than necessary, before rolling over, and pulling the covers up around his shoulders and chin, hugging one of his pillows against his chest. He hated this.

Sleep didn’t come easy to either man that night. Mason tossed and turned, and went through an entire pack of cigarettes, while Oskar tossed and turned, and woke almost every hour on the hour—much to his cat’s displeasure.

×∞×

By morning Oskar woke up more exhausted than when he’d first attempted to sleep; he groaned, peeling his eyes open with considerable effort and peered at the pale blue light creeping up across his bedroom wall. A soft trill alerted Oskar to the fact that his cat was awake—a moment later a solid weight crawled its way over his hip and around to nuzzle at his face. He groaned again but couldn’t help but smile, eyes closed, letting the cat nuzzle and lick at his face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m awake.” He mumbled, reaching up from under the covers and scratching the cat between the ears. “Good morning. Hope you slept better than I did.” He sighed. He doubted it. He knew he’d been restless throughout the night. Had accidently kicked the feline a few times while rolling over in bed. Thankfully the cat was forgiving. “You probably want your breakfast huh?” He sighed and pushed the covers off—the cat eagerly and happily jumping off of the bed expectantly—slowly dragging himself out of bed. He stood and peaked out of the window; a few kids were playing outside, one of his neighbors was walking their dog before work. He sighed and moved away from the window, exiting his bedroom and padding down the hallway, bare feet making a soft sticky noise as he went to the kitchen.

“Right,” he smiled at the cat as it jumped on the counter and trilled, “breakfast.”

×∞×

When Mason woke up he was determined for everything to be as close to normal as possible. Whatever happened last night didn’t matter. It didn’t! It was just something that happened, and was over with, and there was no reason to stew on it.

Regardless of waking up in a sullen mood, Mason’s body was as rowdy as ever; there was rarely a morning where he didn’t wake up horny—he’d always had a high sex drive—and so it was second nature to slide his hand down under the covers and push the waistband of his underwear down to tuck the band behind his balls, freeing his stiff length.

Palming his balls he sighed, eyes closed, head tilted back slightly as he squeezed the warm orbs and gently fondled them before sliding his hand up along his cock; he did this every morning, so it wasn’t exactly intimate or even adventurous—this was just routine.

The first session of the day was always just a means to alleviate his morning wood, nothing more, nothing less—the pleasure was just a bonus, though he hardly really paid attention to it.

Curling his fingers around the base of his cock he slapped it lazily against his own stomach, just for the sound of skin slapping skin, before tugging at himself, sighing as he did. The tightness in his groin was already at a point that he knew he wouldn’t last long—this was no lazy early morning wank, and he wasn’t slow or even gentle with himself. He tugged a few times before loosening his grip and beginning to jerk himself quickly, hand making a hissing sound against the inside of the covers as his skin dragged against the material. He could feel the heat begin to grow along his sex, cockhead swelling even more as the blood continued to rush southward, focusing in on his sensitive cockhead.

“Mmm fu—” He groaned a little and shifted beneath the covers, spreading his legs wider, arching his back a little as he shifted his weight down the bed a little; annoyed he lifted his free hand and yanked the pillow out from under his head, tossing it roughly off the bed with a hardly restrained growl. He let his head rest against the mattress and cocked his hips, tugging at his cock harder—he just wanted relief, just wanted to cum, anything to make the heaviness in his balls go away, just wanted relief long enough to get up and get started with his day.

It only lasted about eight minutes. Eight minutes of vigorous friction, stuttered breathing and the occasional grunts before Mason’s muscles locked up and then he arched up off the bed a little, gasping loudly as he spilled against his own stomach; he dragged his hand up his length and squeezed beneath the head, shaking his cock a little as his release slowed then stopped.

He fell limp against the bed, hand falling from his cock, laying boneless beneath the covers staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling; his thighs, balls and cock throbbed in time with his quickened pulse, toes feeling a little cold and tingly as he laid motionless to recover. Even when he wasn’t jerking off for the joy of it the after affect of the release was always pleasant; _usually_ pleasant—the thought came to him unbidden and it made him blink. Last night hadn’t been pleasant. Not exactly.

He tsked and shoved the covers aside, kicking them down to the end of his bed before swinging his legs over the edge and sitting up. He ran his clean hand through his mess of curls; his hair was a little course, and tended to stick up in all directions in the morning. He scratched his scalp and stood, stretching with a groan, hips popping a little as he did.

He just wanted his day to go along as normal as possible. However things weren’t normal. Even when Mason tried to go through the motions of his morning routine—jerk off, breakfast in bed, brush his teeth, pick out his clothes and get to work—it just didn’t feel like any other day. He felt irritable and unhappy, and his stomach ached; he blamed the oatmeal and fruit. Maybe it was too much fiber.

Setting his dishes aside he crossed to his bathroom; time to get cleaned up and properly and officially start his day. He wouldn’t let ill feelings put him off his game, or interrupt his routine. Mason didn’t like disruption unless he was the one causing it. He liked to watch people scramble, not be the one scrambling to get his footing.

Already mostly naked, Mason stripped off his boxers and let them drop to the floor, stepping out of them with little thought or care—he tended to leave trails of clothes behind in his wake, never really caring what became of them next; after all it wasn’t _h i s_ job to pick them up. He turned on the shower and let the water run over his hand, cold at first—frigid really—and then slowly warming up.

Mason liked hot showers. He liked working the heat up till his skin was bright pink when he stepped out from beneath the spray. He never felt cleaner after a really hot shower.

Once the water was at an agreeable beginning temperature he stepped in, easing his way into the water, not wanting to accidently burn himself; he shuddered as he turned, letting the water wet his rear and back—his spine bowed slightly as the water struck his lower back, making him start a little before easing into it. His shoulders and chest were honestly the easiest part, getting his head and hair soaked after that came with little to no complaint, and he was able to turn the dial up a little more.

Mason washed his hair first, it was always where he started; he grabbed the honey and lavender scented shampoo, popping the lid and giving the liquid a sniff. He loved the aroma. Light and sweet. He never followed the directions of only using a quarter sized amount of shampoo—he had thick hair, and so he always used more—he also just loved how sudsy his hair got when he massaged the shampoo into his hair. Like the sensation of it dripping down his spine, or landing on his shoulders. It was pleasant, and besides, it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it.

After the shampoo came the face wash; he used two different products in the shower—a citrus facial scrub, and a charcoal based black soap—he found that the combination, plus any moisturizer he used after his shower kept his skin soft and dewy.

Mason was thorough when he cleaned himself up. He hated feeling grimy, needed to be clean; he was sure that part of it had come from growing up around barn animals, and going into the slaughter houses. He wasn’t afraid to get dirty, not at all, but he needed to be able to get clean again.

The next thing was body wash—but before that…

Mason rubbed his hand down over his ribs, then lower; he followed the path of his hand with his eyes, watching as he trailed his hand down over his stomach, dipping a finger lightly into his bellybutton and teasing the nerve there that sent a sharp but pleasant spark down to the head of his cock; then lower still, down further so he could wrap his fingers around his flaccid member. Mason had always liked his cock, ever since he was a boy. He’d never really had a crisis of identity—he knew who he was, and what he liked, and he liked cock. His own especially.

He rubbed and massaged, gently stretching out the spongy tissues then letting it snap back to flop against his thighs. _This_ was for his own enjoyment; not for some need for release. This was for fun. He couldn’t help but smile as he continued to stimulate himself—watching as his cock grew and stiffened. He thought the process was a marvel. What a perfect toy to play with—always there, always ready to stand at attention and enjoy if he got bored. He’d spent enough time in school jacking off to know that it helped with boredom.

Once his cock was fully hard he released it and admired the flushed organ as it jutted straight out from his body, drooping only slightly under its own weight. He flexed his muscles and made it jump. He dragged the pads of his index and middle finger over the top and along the shaft, rubbing at the foreskin a little; the flushed head peaked from the skin, and he couldn’t help but smile; it was almost like it was shy. It was a ridiculous thought but it made him feel better than he had all morning. Rolling the foreskin back, he exposed the swollen glands to the hot water and sighed. Perfect.

Mason positioned the showerhead carefully before sitting down on the floor of the shower. He rested his back against the tile, getting as comfortable as possible and parted his legs a little—he wanted to be sure that the hot spray of the water could hit his balls as well; the teasing to his rear wasn’t bad either.

Now seated Mason leaned his head back and gave himself a few strokes, helping his cock adjust to the temperature; it came in waves, first scalding then a little cooler, it was pleasant and made the heat in his groin swelter all the hotter.

Mason stroked himself earnestly, enjoying the friction and the fluctuation in temperature. He knew he was leaking, could feel the way his hole dilated to let the droplets ooze out. He ran his thumb across the head of his cock, teasing the slit and gasping slightly as he gently dug his nail into it a little. Oh he should have brought his sounding kit in with him—all well, perhaps tomorrow morning. He gave his cock head a flick before wrapping one hand around the base of his length and then the other around the top; this created a funnel for the water, and more all around friction. He began fucking up into his hands, sighing as he did so. It was the closest he’d come to feeling like he was fucking into someone.

Sure he had toys and lubes and all that, but this was even better than his fleshlights. The heated water helped. The way it funneled down his hands and over his cockhead, it was perfect.

Closing his eyes he fucked up into his hands with a groan, titling his head away from the spray of water—the steam rising up from the floor of the top almost suffocating; it was hot, so hot, and his head was spinning. He’d left the class door cracked a little and dragged in cold fresh air with each heavy breath; the contrast to the heat of the shower in comparison to the cold air hitting his lungs felt like heaven.

“Ah…oh fuck…hmn… fuck yes…” He tightened his grip a little and fucked a little faster, lifting his legs to hook his feet up on the edges of the tub, thigh muscles straining as he tried to hold the position; he did scoot down a little, ass squeaking against the tile—the change in position let the water more directly hit his balls and creep down over his hole; sometimes he liked to imagine it was a hot wet tongue lapping at the tender furled muscle. Mason wasn’t a bottom, but that didn’t mean he didn’t occasionally like getting eaten out. It was fun riding someone’s face, forcing them to pleasure his hole while he pleasured his own cock—ignoring them entirely in the process.

While Mason fucked his own hands, eyes closed, head spinning, he couldn’t help but get a mental flash of coppery hair, smooth pale skin—and ink; he gasped—dark ink etched into milky creamy soft thighs. His breathing stuttered and he gasped, fucking faster, toes curling to try and get any sort of purchase on the tile as he slid down with another squeak. He couldn’t draw in the cold air anymore, hot steam filled his lungs and his head spun. Oh that perky taut ass—he wondered if the man’s hole was as perfect—he hadn’t looked. He’d been too preoccupied. How would it have felt to fuck into that tight hole? To see that pink ring muscle stretch taut around his cock?

Mason couldn’t help a loud groan as he remembered how warm and tight the man’s cunt had been—so soft, so warm, so wet—two perfect holes for fucking? One a tight warm velvety wet pocket, the other the perfect tight squeezing sleeve to stretch around him? Three! Three if he counted that mouth—oh to see those lips flushed pink and swollen…

It was too much. The thought of the other man was too much, and with a choked gasp and cry, Mason was cumming; he bucked his hips roughly, tugging at his cock when he couldn’t quite keep up the pace—there was a loud clatter as he knocked the shampoo bottle off of the edge of the tub but he hardly noticed.

He groaned as he milked his orgasm, releasing one hand to push the shower door open more to let in cool air, the other still tugging languidly at his throbbing flesh. Oh it felt so good. He could feel the pulsing heat tingling through his gut and his thighs, down to his toes. Could feel the way his balls tensed and tightened, drawn up tight to his body, clamping and releasing as they forced every last drop up to his spewing cock.

When he couldn’t continue he went limp, hand on his stomach, panting heavily, eyes heavily lidded, staring unseeing at the opposite end of the shower. His stomach and thighs were vividly pink from the hot water, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was spent and still had so much to do. He hadn’t even gotten to the body wash yet.

×∞×

Breakfast was never really Oskar’s strong suit—he actually knew how to cook a lot of different sorts of meals, but he was rarely hungry before noon. Even then he usually didn’t eat until two in the afternoon. This morning however he sat on his sofa eating orange slices while watching cartoons; the cartoons were mindless, easy to ignore, but it was better than sitting in silence. The silence had been too much for him the deal with—especially because he didn’t plan to go out at all.

When he finished his oranges—fingers scraping the bottom of the bowl—he paused, blinking once as he registered that his food had run out. Ah, all well. He set the bowl aside and glanced at the cat curled up on the other sofa cushion, sleeping soundly. He couldn’t help but smile a little. He wished that he could be like that, carefree, sleep all day—that was the dream. Looking back to the tv, he supposed that he could spend the day as a cat. He had no obligations, he wasn’t intending to attend to any obligations, he could just sleep all day—find a sunny patch and curl up on the floor and sleep away his problems. Did he have problems? He wasn’t actually sure. He felt that he ought to have problems. He had this sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong, but he couldn’t focus long enough to really even figure out what it might be. He was pretty sure he’d taken care of all of his bills this month. He had food in the fridge. He’d fed his cat. He sighed and slumped against the sofa cushions, spreading his legs wide as he did—it wouldn’t take much effort for him to slide down from the sofa onto the floor, but he just sat there in an uncomfortable limbo.

“Nothing.” He sighed to himself before sliding down off of the sofa and moving to lie on the floor, star fishing in the middle of his living room, the soft carpet a pleasant tickle against his thighs and shoulder blades. “Nothing matters. I have no obligations. I’m going to stay right here in my little apartment and do nothing all day.” He said aloud to himself—speaking it out loud to put it out there into the universe. If he said it than he’d stick to it. Of course, there was the issue about tomorrow. He was due back to the Verger mansion to continue work on Mason’s portrait. The idea of going back, of going back into that room, of seeing the man… it made his stomach tense.

He stared at the ceiling, heart pounding eerily loudly in his ears.

“I’m not going back.”

×∞×

Work was a bore. Margot was a bore—though the woman seemed to be fully aware of Mason’s foul mood and seemed dead set on avoiding him—he didn’t entirely blame her; he was never kind to her when he was in a bad mood. In fact he was worse. He knew that. He’d always been volatile, even as a boy.

Mason swiveled in his chair, slumped low, frowning as he twiddled a pen between his fingers, eyeing his desk without really seeing it. He bumped his knee on the inside of the desk with each swivel to the right, and knew by this point he was probably already getting a bruise, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He could hardly bring himself to care about anything—let alone the pile of paperwork on his desk that he should have been doing.

With a frustrated groan Mason pushed back from his desk and stood. He couldn’t concentrate. After his shower his bad mood at returned and he couldn’t seem to shake it, no matter what he did. He hated that! Exiting his office Mason walked down the hall and rounded to the staircase. He trotted down them lightly—so familiar with them he hardly had to think about it—and turned to head towards the makeshift studio. He entered the room—which was not to be disturbed by anyone at all while the portrait remained unfinished.

Everything was where they’d left it. Even the throw pillow he’d knocked off the sofa the previous evening. He entered the room and stooped to pick it up, giving it a smack to dust it off before tossing it back onto the sofa. He looked around the room. It felt….hollow. It was strange being in there without the artist working away at his canvas—or his back hurting, but that was hardly his focus at the moment. He crossed to the artists station, looking at the paint spattered drop cloths and rags. Painting was a messing business he mused thoughtfully to himself, before something caught his attention. He blinked and frowned, brow furrowing as he stooped and pick up something from under the table. Straightening up he examined a blue envelope. It had his name on it.

Shrugging one shoulder, he popped the seal carefully—it had his name on it, so why shouldn’t he read it?

_Dear Mason…_


	3. consequences

Chapter 3, consequences

He looked around the room. It felt….hollow. It was strange being in there without the artist working away at his canvas—or his back hurting, but that was hardly his focus at the moment. He crossed to the artists station, looking at the paint spattered drop cloths and rags. Painting was a messing business he mused thoughtfully to himself, before something caught his attention. He blinked and frowned, brow furrowing as he stooped and pick up something from under the table. Straightening up he examined a blue envelope. It had his name on it.

Shrugging one shoulder, he popped the seal carefully—it had his name on it, so why shouldn’t he read it?

_Dear Mason,_

_It’s been weeks now, spent together holed up in this room in silence—well, mostly silence—your chair squeaks. I don’t think you’ve ever noticed; if you had you probably wouldn’t have moved around so much. But regardless of that, it’s been weeks, surrounded by paint fumes and sunlight—and failing that sun lamps—studying your continence, trying to capture every detail. Did you know that you have freckles? They’re very very feint, hardly noticeable. But I want to capture them._

_I didn’t see any of the other portraits—your sister offered when I first arrived but, I didn’t want to be influenced by another artists—multiple other artists. This is your portrait, my portrait in a way. So, I wanted to go in blind. I think I’m doing a pretty good job._

_Now that I’ve rambled, I just wanted to let you know that, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed painting you. I didn’t think that I would, but, I really have. Now that the portrait is done, I, I won’t see you anymore and I haven’t quite decided how I feel about that. It’s going to be strange, getting back into my regular routine, and not seeing you every other day. I think, it will be quite lonely. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss the time we spent together, even if we weren’t talking. I’ll miss looking at you, and catching you trying to get comfortable when you think I’m not looking._

_Thank you for this time Mr. Verger._

_-Oskar_

Mason’s eyes tracked along each line of black ink several dozen times, head full of static and warm white noise—what? His brow furrowed, the slightest of tiny wrinkles forming between them as he went back and reread the letter for a thirteenth and then a fourteenth time. Was this…? No. This couldn’t be… this wasn’t a confession… this… this couldn’t possibly be a love letter? Mason’s jaw clenched and he forced a short tsk of air through his teeth, fingers trembling a little as he gripped the paper tighter.

“What the fuck is this?” He growled to himself; he wasn’t entirely sure where the sudden rush of anger came from, but it was unyielding and vicious as it flowed through his veins. He could feel his pulse pinging against the side of his neck, heart beginning to beat harder against his ribs, face heating as his blood pressure began to rise. He refolded the letter—perhaps a little more half hazardly than he should have—and tucked it back into the envelope before stuffing that into his pocket.

Turning he promptly exited the room—he couldn’t be in there—not right now. Not after reading that. Who wrote a love letter for the future? Who did that? What was this, elementary school? Mason could hardly fathom it or the implications. Was the man waiting to see if he wanted to give Mason the letter? Did he already feel that way, or had he written the letter thinking he might come to feel that way?

While Mason marched aimlessly through the mansion he ground his teeth and held his hand over the pocket where he had tucked the letter—unconsciously protecting it from any and all prying eyes or sticky fingers; no one could read this. Ever. Not a soul.

×∞×

The day passed by slowly; when Oskar wasn’t laying on his floor, or wandering room from room nibbling on carrot sticks and humus he was staring out the window; he had no desire to go outside, but looking at outside… it left an almost alien feeling tickling at the back of his skull. Like he was some observer in a cloaked observation station just watching the hustle and bustle of the outside world, studying this planet and its residence. Of course there was really nothing worth studying if one didn’t count some hearty insects who refused to let the chill send them off to early graves.

“Do you think…it’ll ever feel the same?” He asked, voice cracking a little—he’d hardly spoken at all since he got up—he swallowed thickly to wet his throat and took another bite of his carrot stick, forgetting the humus he held cradled in his hand. “Outside. The mundane. Going to the grocery store? Will it feel the same?” Part of him felt ashamed at the posed question. Was he being over dramatic? It wasn’t like he’d been raped. He was sexually attracted to the man, and he hadn’t said no. He hadn’t exactly said yes, but… it hadn’t been thoroughly unenjoyable. Maybe he felt guilty. Guilty for not being properly upset. Guilty for finding some weird sick twisted pleasure in the memory of the man’s invasive touch. He sighed heavily through his nose and turned to look at the cat perched on the small table near the window—the cat tilted its head to look back up at him, sitting straight and proper tail wrapped around its small paws.

“Why am I asking you? You’ve never even been fucked.” He sighed and turned away from the window, returning to the sofa and sitting down with a huff, and the crunch of his carrot stick. Maybe he was just being over dramatic. Or maybe he was weird. Maybe he was one of those twisted fiends who liked being hurt. No… that didn’t feel right. “I don’t know what I am.” He mumbled, watching the television though he didn’t even know what was on at this point anymore.

×∞×

The day passed in a fog—Mason had very little actual memory of doing anything, though he did have tactile memories of doing things. He had definitely shuffled paperwork and signed documents and made phone calls; did he remember the conversations he’d had? No. His mind was entirely occupied by the painter and the letter and what it could mean. He was torn between annoyance and a weird churning sensation in his stomach that wasn’t quite nausea. What did it mean? Was the man infatuated or was he hoping to become infatuated? No. That was stupid! People don’t plan to become infatuated it just happens, like lightening. Mason had never once planned to be infatuated with anyone, it just happened and he dealt with it. Okay, so he’d never been infatuated. He’d lusted certainly. But, butterflies? Tightening in the chest? Racing thoughts, upset stomach? The daunting lingering worry of whether or not he’d see someone again? No. Never. Not once in his life.

“Mason!”

“W—“ startled out of his spinning thoughts, Mason jumped, chair squeaking a little as his weight shifted so quickly, “What?!” He snapped looking up at Margot who had a hand on his desk and was leaning on it. Her brow was knitted and she looked somewhere between annoyed and mildly concerned.

Straightening up she crossed her arms and cocked a brow at him.

“You’ve been sitting here mumbling and huffing under your breath all day. Stop. Stop working, it’s time for dinner. You were called three times.”

He frowned and glanced at the intercom. He hadn’t even heard it once. Hmn. Maybe it would be best if he stopped working for the night, he obviously wasn’t doing any good here—or at least any good that he could remember and wouldn’t be surprised by come the monthly reports. Pushing the chair back, Mason stood and straightened down his vest, enjoying the feeling of the abroidery beneath his fingertips.

“Right. Yes. Dinner.” He huffed and rounded the desk. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Tch.” Margot bit her tongue. No reason to start a fight. She turned and followed him out of the office—they hadn’t eaten together in ages, and they certainly wouldn’t be starting now, but even so, it was important the man ate. She knew that deep down, she shouldn’t care, but he was her twin brother. It was hard to shake some things.

Dinner was a much more reserved event for Mason than breakfast. But even so he felt himself growing more and more irritable the longer he sat at the table and ate—hardly tasting a thing. He wasn’t hungry, not really. And he knew that he should have been enjoying the caramelized carrots and stewed beef, but, he just wasn’t. He simply didn’t have an appetite, his head was to full of swirling thoughts that he hardly understood and his skin was tightening with irritation—he needed to go to bed. He needed to go to bed, have a smoke, and maybe get off once or twice. Maybe he’d have a glass of wine as well. He just knew that sleep wouldn’t be coming easily tonight. Not when the painter was coming back the following morning and they’d been back in that room for hours on end. The idea alone left Mason feeling just a little anxious, and he could hardly figure out why.

Once he’d eaten at least half of his dinner Mason gave up, pushing the plate away and tossing his napkin on the table as he stood, giving up on the idea of food and giving up on being up, it was time for bed. Or at least time to be cloistered away alone in his rooms.

Mason’s bedroom was practically a house in and of itself. It was bedroom, living room in one, with a large sauna bathroom; he had every amenity one could wish for; Mason believed in comfort and enjoyability—he was at his core a hedonist. If it didn’t bring him pleasure it wasn’t really worth his time, let alone worth existing within a mile radius of him.

Finally alone, Mason stripped of his clothes and tossed them aside—a maid would deal with them in the morning, it was none of his concern—and crossed to the bed, grabbing a remote, and his pack of cigarettes. He’d decided to pass on the wine as it sometimes made him to sluggish, and disoriented or not, Mason wanted to enjoy his time with himself.

Settling into bed, he clicked on the television and pulled up porn; he had favorites. One’s he watched at times like this when he felt the need for some form of relief from too busy thoughts or annoying sisters or any other thing that got caught up in his craw.

Home made films of men publicly masturbating on beaches—non nude beaches to be precise—men using flesh-lights, melons, or home made toys; Mason enjoyed watching other men masturbate, and most of his porn stash were clips and videos of such events. He enjoyed watching the color of their straining erections change from flushed to positively angry red or purple, slits dilating, then cumming, thick and messy. The more noise they made while they pleasured themselves the more Mason enjoyed it.

He had videos of nineteen-year-olds fucking themselves on dildos longer than their forearms, sobbing as they were overcome with pleasure. He loved watching their still soft chubby thighs trembling as they pulled themselves off firm unyielding rubber, cocks jumping as they came.

Mason liked twinks—the softer and younger they looked the more he liked watching them fall apart and suffer. Of course, he also enjoyed muscle men, and burly bears, but he loved them more when they were destroying a young thin whispy thing.

While he browsed through his catalogue of options, he palmed himself lazily, encouraging himself to slowly and steadily stiffen. Though he was having difficulty selecting something that hit the right nerve; he watched a few seconds of each clip, and then changed them. He didn’t want to see that man’s face, he didn’t like the color of his hair, he had a weird nose. He was being a picky viewer this evening that made the pit of frustration in his gut tighten.

Why was it so difficult to select porn when you really wanted to get off to it? Eventually Mason just clicked on a video and tossed the remote, whatever it was he’d just have to deal with it.

He wrapped his fingers around his thickened shaft as the video began to play, a lean hairless ginger with curly hair laid flat on his back on a massage table, blue cock pump wrapped around his thick shaft while a tattooed massage therapist fucked him.

Ah, well, at least the twink made pleasant noises he supposed.

Mason worked his fingers over his cock, keeping himself fully hard and arousal burning—though there was frustration in the mix, something that simultaneously pushed his arousal and prevented a quick release; sometimes that sensation of frustration, chasing pleasure and being denied could be fun, but right now it just left Mason feeling on edge and irritable. He pumped himself as he watched the twink get fucked; laid out on his back, legs spread wide, pale skin on display. He had a nice cock, thick, flushed a peachy orange color. On any given night Mason would have loved to watch him, watch his pleasured suffering, but he felt that he was disconnected despite watching, pleasuring himself.

_“You like that?”_

Mason rolled his eyes and dropped his head back onto the pillow behind him, spreading his own legs and pumping himself with a practiced motion, a familiar motion; he wanted to cum so there was little to no finesse to his movements, but even so he couldn’t quite get there. He felt stuck, trapped in quicksand, release so close, but seemingly out of reach.

“Fuck, oh… c’mon.” He grumbled to himself as he released his cock and laid there for a moment, groin throbbing. Okay, he needed to breathe and relax, otherwise this would never come, and when it did he wouldn’t enjoy it. He wanted to enjoy it.

Just listen to the audio. Listen to the sweet sounds of a man being pleasured, being fucked open, the soft gasps and cries and grunts of surprised pleasure. There it was, the relaxation beginning to settle at the base of his spine.

Dragging his hand back across his hip he circled his index and middle finger and thumb around his length and began slowly pumping, imagining a whole other copper haired twink with pale but marked up skin. He hadn’t made a lot of noise, not really, but Mason wondered if he’d sound as pretty as the twink on his television. Probably better.

As he began to fall into the rhythm, pleasure building behind the base of his cock, he couldn’t help but begin fantasizing about the man. What it might be like to fuck him face to face—Mason was rarely ever so romantic but, the man was so pretty, and it might be fun to see how his expression changes with pleasure.

How would it feel to fuck him, encased in the tight wet heat, spreading him open as he fed him inch after inch of his cock, watching the other mans own cock swell and twitch, small and rose red.

“Oh—” Mason arched a little as he picked up his speed, tightening his grip a little as he imagined that small flushed cock, he’d never had much interest in sucking cock, but…. Well, he wouldn’t entirely mind a taste.

Mason came quite suddenly, grunting and gasping as his body went taut, cock jumping in his fingers as he spilled over across his stomach. He bucked and rolled his hips up against his fingers, groaning as he emptied himself, the taste of salt on his tongue. Oh he couldn’t wait to see the man again.

The following morning Mason dressed in his usual attire, wanting to be sure that he was ready for when the man arrived; he wore the same thing every time, to help with the consistency of the painting. It was annoying, but since the man didn’t want to work of a photograph fine, he could absolutely put up with it, even if the outfit was beginning to get annoyingly uncomfortable. He paced a bit in the staging room, tugging at his collar; it was still a little early, but he felt uneasy, agitated, worried. Something in his gut told him that the man should have been here by now, he was never late—of course he was rarely to early either. Punctual was probably the best way Mason would describe the man.

He kept checking his watch as he paced, anxiety a thin tight string around his chest. What if he didn’t show? No, he had to show, he had a job to finish! He was being paid for this! This was a job, work, not… not…

A knock outside the room made Mason spin on his heel and blink.

“What?”

Margot leaned in the doorway, hair loose, dressed in more casual clothes—meaning that she wasn’t planning on going out Mason supposed.

“Maybe you should think that, perhaps he won’t be coming.” She mused.

“This is a job.” Mason stated firmly.

“People quit jobs all the time.” She said with a shrug. “Happens every day. Probably every hour.”

“Not to me!” He hissed. “People don’t _q u i t_ on me when I hire them. Either I fire them, or I make them disappear.”

“You know Mason, sometimes, just sometimes, things don’t work out how you want them to.” Margot stated as she pushed off the doorframe and turned and left. Mason grinded his molars in irritation. Bitch. He always got what he wanted, one way or the other.

Marching out of the room, Mason decided he’d wait twenty more minutes, and if the man didn’t show, well, he’d pull strings; he’d get the man back here one way or the other, though he was willing to try and offer a simple solution—he didn’t want to jump the gun. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding, broken down car, something along those lines. He could be forgiving. Sometimes.

In the end, Mason spent three hours sitting out on the front steps waiting. When Oskar didn’t come, Mason immediately went to his head of security—well, security was a loose title—and work shopped ways to get the man back. Of course he could just have him dragged back here, demand to know why he hadn’t arrived on time as scheduled, but, that didn’t feel right.

“It might have just been a misunderstanding.” Mason sighed rubbing a hand over his face.

“Either way, if you want me to go pick him up, I will.”

“No, no that…” He waved the man’s suggestion off and leaned back in his chair with a huff. “Just, Just call. Call and tell him that he had to come tomorrow morning. Make it sound as if we have to discuss… his continued work here, or something. But I need to talk to him. But, now don’t make it sound like a threat. We’re not threatening him. Just… getting him here.” Mason instructed pointing up at the man to be sure that he understood what he was saying. “I want him to come here under the guise of his own free will. I don’t want him to think I have thirty guys waiting to jump him if he doesn’t leave his home on time.”

“Yes sir. I understand sir.”

×∞×

The telephone began ring while Oskar worked on making himself lunch. As promised to himself he hadn’t gone out, had spent the day relaxing, painting a little at home. He’d had a better morning that the last, and actually felt considerably more like himself.

Licking his fingers clean he went to the phone mounted on the wall and grabbed the receiver, tucking it between his shoulder and his ear as he moved back into the kitchen to finish what he was doing.

“Hello?” He paused spreading tofurkey slices on his sandwich and looked up out the kitchen window. “Uhuh, oh, well,” he used a knife to carefully fold his sandwich roll closed, squishing it down a little, “yeah okay. I understand. I appreciate the phone call.” He put the knife into the sink and then hung up the phone, taking it back to the wall and putting it up. He sighed. He supposed he had seen this coming; he knew that something would happen. He wouldn’t just be able to leave and there be no ramifications. “Alright.” He turned back to his sandwich and grabbed it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d have to face the man again, and explain himself. No. There was nothing to explain. He needed to express himself. His desires. What he wanted. He wouldn’t just let himself be steamrolled willingly by Mason Verger, even if it was unavoidable he’d at least say his peace.

Oskar stood in front of his bathroom mirror doing up the buttons on his shirt. He’d showered again, washed his face, cleaned himself up; he hadn’t exactly let himself go, but he wanted to look his best. He also wanted this to be his choice, despite the demanding phone calls and poorly veiled threats. He had to play his cards right; he wasn’t afraid of Mason Verger, but he didn’t want to dig himself into a deeper hole either.

The drive back to the Verger estate was much different than the drive away from it had been; the sun was out, the grass was dewy and the trees were green. Jodi Mitchell was playing softly, and he felt oddly calm. Normal people didn’t feel this calm while on their way back to face their attacker. He was still a little uneasy, but not about Mason, about himself, but, well, if he wasn’t bothered, then so be it. He’d just have to accept the fact that he was just a little less than normal… what was normal anyway?

When he finally pulled up along the long driveway and came to a stop he peered up at the large mansion. He expected it to feel daunting but, he still felt a touch enchanted by it. It was beautiful. He sighed and smiled to himself. Alright, well, this was him, and these would be his terms.

Opening the door he climbed out of his car, gravel crunching underneath his shoes and peered up at the windows; he couldn’t see in, but he got the very distinct feeling of being watched, and not by the security cameras. He smiled wider and closed the car door behind himself before sticking his hands in his pockets and marching towards the front door.

He was escorted back to the painting room, which he was grateful for—most people might have been uncomfortable, but this was the room that he was the most comfortable in—he thanked the man who had escorted him and wandered further into the room, looking back over the unfinished canvas. Even unfinished it had a charm to it. He had really been doing a good job. He was very proud of this piece. He turned at the sound of foots steps, hands still in his pockets; he tilted his chin up, straightening his back a little; he wanted to keep control, at least a little. He was here of his own free will. He was here to say his peace. That knowledge however didn’t prevent his stomach from flipping a little and his chest from tightening when Mason walked into the room… oh, he wasn’t the only one who’d wanted to feel in control.

Mason was dressed well—he always was—but there was more detail about the man. Finer clothes, more accessories, his hair was a bit more fluffed; he was definitely here for some sort of… confrontation. It took a considerable amount of effort for Oskar not to smile. He really did have it bad didn’t he? Oh well. There was someone from everyone, maybe Mason was his someone.

“Alright let’s just get this shit straight, I—”

“I missed you.” Oskar interrupted stepping a little closer. “And I’m glad you called. I needed an excuse to come back here, and you provided it for me.” He could see the look of surprise on the man’s face, so he continued, while he had the nerve, before the man could pull himself back together. “I want to continue working on your portrait. I want to see you still. I don’t think that things can be like they were, the… the quiet. Attempted quiet. But, I still want to see you nonetheless.”

Mason could hardly believe his ears; he had expected more of a… well a protest. He was sure that the perplexed emotions must have shown on his face because Oskar’s expression while still neutrally calm had softened ever so slightly. Mason tried to regroup, get a hold of his bearings again, try and figure out where to go from here.

“Excuse me?” In the end clarification seemed to be the best option that Mason had at his disposal. Oskar blessedly seemed to be in a patient mood, and managed not to huff or sigh or roll his eyes—though he did shift his weight from one foot to the other, cocking a hip out slightly; his only sign of exasperation.

“I said, ‘I feel the same’, and I mean it. I do. I tried to reason myself out of it, come up with any excuse, but nothing really stuck or felt right.” The red head repeated and continued simply. He loosely crossed his arms across his chest and gave a slight shrug of one shoulder. “It doesn’t logically make sense. I should be angry. More than angry, enraged, disgusted, I should want to kill you. To strangle you with my own two hands but… despite the initial shock, followed by slight disgust at not feeling any of those things… I found to my surprise that I missed you. Seeing you every few days was… enjoyable.”

Honestly Mason had seen the array of reactions before from countless other people. They’d never really phased him—not much really did. But what got him now was the fact that the man hadn’t really properly experienced any of those feelings. In fact quite the opposite. He still wanted to see him. Was this some sick twisted joke, or had the Universe finally sent along someone as fucked up as he was?

“I…. I was not expecting that.” He felt that he had to admit that. That he’d expected a fight. That he’d expected to have to use force—again—or blackmail to get his way.

Oskar’s expression finally melted into a smile and he chuckled, bowing his head a moment before nodding.

“Yeah, I sort of figured that. How you came marching in here like some ruffled peacock.” He unfolded his arms and stepped closer, reaching out a hand, a little afraid perhaps that the man might suddenly push him away. Mason however took his hand and Oskar felt the fear quickly washed away. “I came here before you wanted me to, but, I also came here because I needed to.”

“Do you regret it? Coming here? This time, that time, ever?”

“Hmn…” Oskar thought about that for a moment, then pulled the other into a one armed embrace, their fingers lacing together. “No. I don’t, not really.”

“Not really?”

“My only regret is you didn’t kiss me. First I mean.” He stated truthfully and tilted his head up slightly to look at the man. “That’s all. I could handle a rough fuck so long as theirs… at least a little kissing. Proper kissing. Not… well…”

Mason listened. This was important. The most important. He needed to know what the man wanted. Needed to know how to make him stay. Stay for good, of his own free will.

“So, you like me.”

“Yes.”

“And…yesterday?”

“I was… in denial. About my feelings. They’re… atypical.”

“Ah well, so many good things in life are.” Mason felt the anxiety he’d been feeling lessen. Maybe things would be alright. “Stay.”

“I didn’t bring my paint supplies…”

“No, I don’t mean… that was yesterday, tomorrow, we can, worry about the painting later. Stay, and, we can spend the day together. Talk. Figure out, your feelings.”

“I… I have to ask…” Oskar’s brow furrowed a little. “What brought all this… well this on?”

“Your letter.”

“Letter?” Oskar frowned then blinked and eyes widening. “Oh. OH, oh no, oh god.”

Mason chuckled at the man’s expression. Oskar covered his face and groaned.

“I, I completely forgot about the letter. Fuck.”

“I was flattered. And confused. But… well now I’d like to actually talk about your feelings. I’m assuming you have some.”

“Some.”

“There’s an attraction.”

“Yes.” Oskar looked up at Mason, dropping his hand. “There is an attraction. I… like your face.” He admitted. Mason smiled oddly flattered.

“I like your face to. Come on.” He nodded towards the doorway. “Let’s go. We can talk, and I can have food. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Do you like pastries?”

“Sure.” Oskar said with a nod and a smile. Well, he supposed that this could have gone a lot worse. It could have gone considerably worse than this, but perhaps he'd been smart to cut the man off, to get what he wanted said out there.


End file.
